The workshop buzzed with the chaos of industry, wood chips scattering like ash in a storm as masked and goggled workers fed timber into roaring machines.
Blades whirred, slicing the wood into precise shapes, while sanders hummed, smoothing them to perfection.
The air was thick with sawdust and the sharp scent of resin, a gritty haze that clung to every surface.
Finished goods rolled off the line, loaded onto automated carts that trundled toward the warehouse.
Until two weeks ago, these would have been hoisted onto trucks bound for destinations beyond the city walls.
But the minor noble overseeing the operation had changed the plan.
Now, the trucks delivered their loads straight to the slums’ edge, where desperate hands, hired for a pittance, hauled the timber on rickety carts to the crystal tower of a great noble.
At the head of the assembly line, a machine groaned as it fed out a fresh plank.
Two workers, their ears attuned to the rhythm of the workshop, paused as an odd sound—a faint, peculiar cry—seemed to echo from within the machinery.
They exchanged a glance but shrugged it off, too accustomed to the din to linger on it.
“You’ve been pulling double shifts lately, haven’t you? How much coin are you raking in?” one worker asked, his voice muffled as he guided a log through the cutter.
His eyes, bloodshot and cloudy, sagged beneath heavy bags, betraying nights spent chasing extra pay.
The other, his hands steady on the machine, let out a weary chuckle.
“The little noble’s overtime pay is decent, I’ll give him that. No clue what’s got him in such a rush, though. Suddenly he wants to triple the output. My eyes are so swollen I can barely see straight.”
“I heard he’s building something big,” the first worker said, his tone curious, his hands slowing as he leaned in.
The workshop’s monotony bred chatter, a way to pass the hours of repetitive toil.
The second worker’s interest piqued, his movements slowing.
“Go on, spill it.”
“Not sure if it’s true,” the first said, lowering his voice, “but word is, the wood we’re treating with that weird slime? It’s for building a Hellgate. Could just be a coincidence, though.”
“A Hellgate?” The second worker’s brow furrowed.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“You don’t know? They say those gates let brainless mutants pour out, slaughtering everything in sight.”
The second worker sucked in a breath, his hands freezing on the controls.
“That’s terrifying! We’ve got to report this Gris guy to the Demon Suppression Bureau!”
He clapped the sawdust from his gloves, ready to storm off, but his companion grabbed his arm, yanking him back.
“Are you insane? This job’s the only thing keeping us out of the slums, away from sucking crystal cores like street rats. You want to go back to that?”
“But what if he’s really building a Hellgate?”
“So what? It’s got nothing to do with us. Keep your head down, make your money. Besides, Gris doesn’t even treat us that bad—just works us to the bone. You really think he’s the type to cozy up with mutants?”
The second worker hesitated, then slumped, defeated.
“Fine.”
Convinced, he returned to his post, the rhythm of the machines swallowing their unease as they traded conscience for coin.
The workshop’s doors burst open with a violent crash.
A black-haired youth in a long trench coat strode in, flanked by a white-haired girl in a sharp leather jacket, her demeanor as fierce as her attire.
The air seemed to shift with their presence, a ripple of authority cutting through the sawdust haze.
“By order of the Demon Suppression Bureau, Minor Noble Sato Gris is suspected of colluding with mutants. All workers are to evacuate the factory immediately. Noncompliance will mark you as accomplices, subject to arrest.”
The black-haired youth’s voice was firm, his hand flashing a Bureau token as proof.
The workers, startled but unquestioning, joined the stream of evacuees.
The Bureau’s authority was a weight etched deep in the psyche of every Imperial citizen.
Footsteps echoed in a chaotic rush as workers filed out under the guidance of Bureau agents.
The investigation had begun swiftly after Sano Frazer reported Simon’s disappearance.Â
Evidence piled up with startling ease, enough to issue an arrest warrant for Gris.
But when Arden led a team to Gris’s residence to seize critical documents, they found them reduced to ashes by the great noble’s trio of enforcers— Hui, Ahei, and Abai.
The connection between the minor and great nobles was clear, yet hard proof remained elusive.
Arden, in a fit of frustration, smashed Gris’s tea table to splinters, leaving his adjutant trembling in the aftermath.
Outside the factory, Tina and a team of medics stood ready to treat the injured.
A bishop, arriving in haste, reinforced the containment barrier to trap any fleeing suspects.
Xing Chen joined the evacuation team, ensuring their safety against potential ambushes.
Noi and Lyte were tasked with finding Gris and the missing Simon.
The noble remained elusive, but Simon’s location was no longer a mystery.
“Gurgle… gurgle…”
The sound came from the heart of an operational machine.
Lyte studied the control panel, halting the conveyor with a flick of a switch.
He climbed onto the line, shouting into the machine’s depths.
“Mr. Simon? Can you hear me?”
“I hear you! I hear you!” A muffled voice echoed back, distant but unmistakable.
“Are you Noi’s guardian knight? You sound like him!”
Lyte grinned, relieved.
“Sharp ears, huh? Recognizing my voice like that. You holding up okay? No injuries?”
As they bantered to assess the situation, Lyte whispered to Noi to check if the conveyor could be reversed.
“No injuries!” Simon called back.
“Your voice is just that distinctive. Easy to pick out!”
“How’s it looking down there?”
“Not great! I’m practically wedged in here. Don’t you dare dismantle this thing—I’m right underneath. One wrong move, and I’m a pancake!”
“Got it, got it. We’re working on it.”
Noi let out a sharp call, and Lyte turned to see her pouring vials of shadow spider slime into the machine.
She tapped a sequence on the panel, and the conveyor began to creep backward.
“Impressive,” Lyte said, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you going in, or should I?”
“I’ll go,” Noi replied, her voice steady but cautious.
“Be careful. Shout when you find him.”
Lyte stepped aside, letting Noi crawl along the reversing conveyor.
The machine’s interior was a tight maze of gears and belts, but Noi’s petite frame slipped through, barely brushing the components.
Tria’s machinery, built on mana and runic principles, left just enough room to maneuver.
Her eyes scanned the shadows, calling out for Simon to guide her.
“Here! Over here!” His voice rang from the right.
Noi turned, spotting a handsome elf trapped in an awkward stance, surrounded by glowing runic arrays that would harm him if touched.
“Lyte, stop the line!” she shouted.
The conveyor halted instantly.
Noi raised a hand, urging Simon to stay still.
Cutting the runes with magic or a blade risked collapsing the machine on him.
Noi squinted, studying the intricate weave of parts and runic circuits.
Simon swallowed hard, his fate hanging on her next move.
A faint hum filled the air as a battered grappling hook materialized in Noi’s hand.
She aimed her palm at a critical rune.
“Solar Beam.”
A lance of radiant mana shot forth, shattering the array.
The machine groaned, teetering on the edge of collapse.
Noi’s hook snagged Simon’s clothes, yanking him free just as she tossed the weapon to jam a vital gear.
The collapse halted with a shudder.
“What a pity about that hook…” Simon muttered.
Noi shot him an exasperated glare.
“Really? That’s what you’re worried about?”
The conveyor hummed back to life, carrying them out.
Lyte helped Noi to the ground, eyeing Simon carefully.
They weren’t close—barely acquaintances—but he knew Simon was Noi’s friend.
“You two okay?” Lyte asked.
“All good!” Simon grinned, brushing off the ordeal with easy charm.
“Great to see you, nest’s hero!”
After a quick exchange, Simon revealed Gris’s whereabouts.
The trio set off, determination burning in their steps.
***
In a sprawling office, Minor Noble Sato Gris sat atop his desk, his face a mask of shadow as he spoke into a phone.
“Why are you calling me? It’s just a routine report. Cover it up, and it’s done.”
A sigh crackled through the line.
“You know I work under Arden. The one who reported this? She’s my savior. Arden even gave her his personal contact. What am I supposed to do?”
“Has the Bureau found evidence?” Gris’s voice was tight.
“Pretty much everything, except what the great noble’s trio destroyed. They’re hunting you now. Even the Qilin of the Four Guardians is here.”
Gris let out a bitter laugh.
“How ruthless. They used me to run this factory, build their Hellgate, then cast me aside. So that’s why they pushed for faster production and deliveries to the slums.”
“I get it,” the voice said softly.
“We’re both just pawns caught by our weaknesses.”
Gris cut him off.
“No, I’m not pitiful. I sought this role from the great noble myself.”
“Why?”
“To earn enough to return to the capital, to win my father’s approval. My dear cousin Lutos needed a scapegoat for his mutant dealings, for building that Hellgate. It was a transaction. But my father never saw my worth.”
“Be careful. Don’t use that mutant serum unless you have no choice.”
“See you in the next life.”
“What? Wait—”
The line went dead.
In the dim office, Gris gripped a syringe, plunging it into his wrist.
He sat back, waiting for Noi and the others to arrive.
After all his efforts, if he couldn’t return to the capital with honor, then he’d go out in a blaze of defiance.